Colonel Mustang’s Observations of a Shrimp
by and yet i walk upon it
Summary: Because writing out ‘Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist’ every five seconds would take far too long, Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, will hereby be referred to as ‘Subject A’. HOLY CHEESE CHAPTER THREE LIVES.
1. Prologue

**Things to read before you... uh, read: **Generally no romance until the very end (though you could read it as Roy/Ed if you want), so even slashphobes can enjoy this. I'll warn you when it happens. Sergeant Walsh is an OC used only for comic relief.

This takes place in a very common AU - you know, the one where Al is re-bodied but all that end-of-series and movie stuff never happened. Yeah. That one.

**I declare this storydisclaimed.**

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****Colonel Roy Mustang's Observations. Subject: Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist.**

Because writing out 'Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist' every five seconds would take far too long, Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, will hereby be referred to as 'Subject A'.

First, a brief history on our Subject. Subject A is seventeen years old, birthdate January 17th, 1898, has blonde hair and gold eyes, is four feet, ten inches tall and weighs 111 pounds. Subtract 19 from 111 and you get 92, which is Subject A's actual weight without the automail. Yes, he's a shrimp. Don't tell him I said that. Subject A's most distinctive features are his diminutive height, his two automail limbs (right arm, left leg), and the complete lack of tact, manners and ability to take a hint.

The Subject has two highly exploitable weaknesses. Weakness #1: Alphonse Elric. Subject A's sixteen year old brother, Alphonse dwarfs Subject A by about nine inches, much to the latter's consternation. Alphonse currently resides in Rizembool with Miss Winry Rockbell, and since Subject A is likely to transmute anyone who breathes wrong in his direction into a toaster, Alphonse is mostly untouchable.

Subject A's other weakness is anything sharp and pointy that can be inserted into the skin – namely, needles. While knives, forks and spears also apply, Subject A is known to go into a violent panic when faced with the possibility of inoculation. An unnamed party admits to finding it extremely entertaining to mention booster shots to him.

Subject A's one-week stay at the sexy and benevolent Roy Mustang's house came about on Saturday, October 10th. The conversation proceeded as thus:

At 3:03 pm that afternoon, Subject A wobbles into the dashingly handsome Roy Mustang's office without knocking, pale, sniffly, and practically oozing germs. He drops facedown onto the couch and does not justify his entry.

Roy Mustang does not approve. With a frown on his lips, he says, "Fullmetal, what are you doing?"

"Sleepin'." Subject A responds to the cushions.

"You have a bed for that."

"They're spraying for termites." Subject A mumbles, not showing any respect to his superior by looking at him when he speaks. "I think I'm allergic to it... I don't feel good." Roy Mustang whips out a notepad and makes a note of Subject A's last comment. According to Alphonse, getting him to admit to any degree of illness is like pulling teeth. "What's with the termites, anyway?"

"I don't know." Roy Mustang says, primly tapping a stack of paper against the desk to even it out. He does know, at least somewhat – when Sergeant-Major Anger (name changed to protect the innocent) opened a dormitory wall to save a hapless lobster which had somehow become lodged in the aforementioned wall, he was brutally attacked by a mob of termites. The exterminators were called in, and while the building's occupants were allowed to stay, workers ripping out sheetrock at all hours certainly was a detriment to sleep. And apparently, Subject A was allergic to the chemicals used to destroy the tiny wood-eaters. **(1)**

After listening to Subject A sniffle, cough, sneeze, moan, groan, and complain for the better part of three hours, Roy Mustang's compassionate side begins to shine though. He discovers that it will be approximately a week before the termite infestation would be under control, and while the prospect of having a whiny, volatile teenager in his house for a week isn't entirely pleasant, he can't leave a suffering subordinate behind (unless, of course, it's Sergeant Walsh – one more coffeepot destroyed and he shall feel the wrath of a man scorned. Roy Mustang's munificence only extends so far).

Subject A temporarily moved into the wonderfully generous Roy Mustang's beautiful, well-kept house at exactly 7:48 am on Sunday. Roy Mustang, as he watched Subject A drop his suitcase on his foot and unleash a torrent of swearing the likes of which innocent-eared Roy Mustang has never heard, realized how peculiar the minuscule creature's habits were. And this journal was born.

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**(1) **The whereabouts of the lobster remain unknown.

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Yeah, reviews are pretty hot. I have an SAT tomorrow. Make me feel empowered. :) 


	2. Sunday, October 11th

**Things to read before you read: **Intentional overuse of Roy Mustang's full name. But you noticed that already, right?

**I declare this story disclaimed.**

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**Colonel Roy Mustang's Observations. Subject: Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist.**

Sunday, October 11th – Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, sleeps funny.

Apparently, the older he gets, the more Subject A needs to sleep.

Roy Mustang, acting in the interest of science, will now record the times and places Subject A slept between the time of his arrival, 7:48 am, and 9:51 pm, and his observations on the Subject's sleeping habits. **(1)**

8:03 am – guest bedroom, on the bed.

8:12 am – guest bedroom, on the floor.

10:43 am – den, on the couch.

1:20 pm – kitchen, on the counter.

3:59 pm – living room, on the armchair.

4:01 pm – living room, on the rug.

5:29 pm – guest bedroom, on the bed.

8:18 pm – bathroom, on the floor.

9:30 pm – den, on the couch.

9:51 pm – guest bedroom, on the bed.

As is obvious, Subject A is not very particular about when or where he decides to snooze.

Subject A commences his visit by falling asleep less than five minutes after Roy Mustang generously goes out of his way to show him where he would be sleeping for the week. He does not even take the time to appreciate the high quality of the sheets he is putting his boots all over, although Roy Mustang once again ponders why he didn't put them on his own bed. They are quite nice sheets, after all, very soft and light. (Roy Mustang fervently hopes that, in spite of Subject A's many idiosyncrasies, he does not wet the bed.) A bit later, while combing his glossy, silky black hair, Roy Mustang hears a 'thud' from the guest bedroom. He goes to investigate.

Subject A is now on the floor, comforter, pillow and all. Unhurt, Subject A rolls over and continues sleeping. Roy Mustang leaves him there. He's obviously comfortable.

Later in the morning, Roy Mustang is diligently keeping up with world events by reading the newspaper when Subject A troops down the stairs, slightly disheveled and looking irritated.

"Your house is too damn complicated." He scowls, sticking his hands on his hips. He's wearing those ridiculous pants again. Roy Mustang is beginning to suspect that Subject A has one mother of a leather fetish. "Is there a bathroom upstairs, or did I walk into four closets for no reason?"

"I would have shown you where it was," Roy Mustang responds, crisply folding the newspaper, "but you seemed far more interested in dirtying up my sheets with your boots."

Subject A throws a pillow at his head.

Subject A naps on the couch. Roy Mustang learns that, while in an advanced state of slumber, Subject A mumbles. He has an entire conversation with someone named 'Russel', consisting mostly of 'you bastard' and 'stupid phony'. There are a few other various phrases directed towards Alphonse, Roy Mustang, Winry Rockbell, and another unidentified person referred to only as 'Mr. Twinkletoes'. Roy Mustang notes this for future reference, and possibly for blackmail.

Subsequent to lunch **(2)**, Subject A lays down to continue his nap, sprawling facedown on the kitchen counter. It is a testament to his shortness that he fits. Subject A also drools in his sleep. Roy Mustang is now firm in his belief that his kitchen has cooties.

Rather disgusted at the now-damp state of his counter, Roy Mustang proceeds to "gently" poke Subject A in the shoulder for almost five minutes, before realizing he is poking at automail. He decides on a more effective alarm clock. Subject A does not enjoy being smacked in the face with an overripe banana, and Roy Mustang retires to the shower to wash mush out of his hair.

After a long, hot shower, Roy Mustang walks down the stairs, shirtless, skin still slightly damp and muscles rippling, but not so much that he could be mistaken for Major Ancientfamilytechnique (name changed to protect the innocent). He is unsurprised to find Subject A draped over the armchair. He is also unsurprised when Subject A again demonstrates his amazing talent **(3)** to flop onto the floor from any height and not wake up.

At 5:29 pm, while checking to be sure his lab rat hadn't died, Roy Mustang makes a discovery to end all discoveries. Subject A, the famed Fullmetal Alchemist, the little boy whose legendary temper has turned towns upside down, is in possession of a security blanket.

Upon approaching the bed, Roy Mustang finds Subject A curled around a plaid green and white blanket, hugging it protectively. The only circumstance hampering the adorable scene is the growling emitting from Subject A's throat. Roy Mustang suspects rabies. He backs away, not out of fear, of course, but because in a military setting snarling and foaming at the mouth are generally not considered becoming of a high-ranking officer such as himself.

Despite having spent five years of his life living mostly on trains and inns with a very sporadic schedule, Subject A has decent hygiene practices. "I'm going to take a shower." Subject A says, standing up and yawning. "If I'm not back in a half hour, make sure I didn't drown, okay?"

Roy Mustang agrees. Loss of a subordinate, especially a prodigy such as Subject A, would likely damage his high chances of being Fuhrer in the future.

Subject A does not return. Roy Mustang finds him half dressed and asleep on the bath mat. Roy Mustang does not want to specify which half was dressed, just that he threw a tube of toothpaste and told Subject A to wake up and make himself decent.

Subject A's bedtime is obviously 9:30. At that time exactly he drops onto the couch and falls back asleep. Roy Mustang, being the kind, caring, sympathetic man he is, graciously carries Subject A upstairs and puts him to bed. Subject A kicks him and rolls over. Roy Mustang doesn't feel quite as kind and caring.

Subject A does not wet the bed. Roy Mustang is eternally grateful. Those sheets were expensive.

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**(1)** All times are approximated, as Roy Mustang has far better things to do than spend every waking moment watching a teenager snooze. Roy Mustang did not become the highly-esteemed Colonel he is today by observing the sleeping habits of Subject A.

**(2)** It is learned that Subject A does not like bologna. The charred remains of Roy Mustang's bologna have been given a proper burial.

**(3)** Subject A's amazing talents are, of course, inferior to Roy Mustang's amazing talents.

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Reviews are still pretty awesome. :) 


	3. Monday, October 12th

**Things to read before you read: **I pronounce myself sovereign owner of all reviews for this story. :be's communist:

My apologies to Charles Schultz.

**His Holiness Pope Benedict VI declares this story disclaimed.**

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Colonel Roy Mustang's Observations. Subject: Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist.**

Monday, October 12th – Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, is short.

Subject A's allergy symptoms are beginning to subside. This is good. Roy Mustang was starting to entertain thoughts of homicide.

One of Subject A's aforementioned distinctive features is his size, which is certainly nothing spectacular. At the age of seventeen, Subject A stands at a less-than-stellar height of four feet and ten inches. Regardless of popular opinion, he has grown. The conversation is preserved here for Roy Mustang's amusement.

"Fullmetal," Roy Mustang says, signing an order form for pens **(1)**, "Go into the filing cabinet, top drawer, and get me the folder in the back."

"I'm not your secretary." Subject A mutters sourly, folding his arms over his chest.

"That was an order."

Subject A childishly sticks out his tongue and treks across the room. Roy Mustang watches the scene play out.

Subject A stands on tiptoes, reaching up towards the handle of the top drawer. His fingers graze the metal but he cannot grab on. Roy Mustang snickers. Subject A jumps and still can't reach. Now clearly irritated, Subject A grabs a box of books that has been gathering dust in the corner for weeks and climbs up on it. Success! He opens the drawer, and discovers he is unable to reach the back folder.

"Would you like some help, Fullmetal?"

"NO!" Subject A grunts, again on tiptoes in an attempt to retrieve the requested folder. "I – can – get – it!"

"Mmm." Roy Mustang mmms, smirking when the Subject turns back to look at him. "Forget it, I'll get it myself." He stands, reaches over Subject A, and plucks the folder from the drawer. "Face it, Fullmetal," he says, walking back to his desk, "You're short."

As expected, Subject A explodes. "I AM NOT SHORT, DAMN IT!"

"Have you even grown since you joined the military?"

"Yes! I grew an inch and a half!" Subject A looks triumphant.

"Hm." Roy Mustang taps his chin. "You were... what, four eight when you were twelve? That'd make you four nine and a half now. Sorry, kiddo, but you're still short."

"I'M FOUR TEN!" Subject A screeches, face red, eye twitching slightly. He spins around, kicks the filing cabinet **(2)**, and stomps out in a fury.

Clearly, Subject A is extremely sensitive about his height (or lack thereof) and will unleash his violent temper on anyone who dares mention it in his presence.

At 8:55 am, Roy Mustang once again skims the newspaper, shaking his head at the state of the country and thinking how much better things would be if he was in charge, when Subject A tromps out of the kitchen. For once in his life he is wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of leather. "You need to go shopping." He advises. "There's no food. At all. The only things I could find in your fridge were a carton of milk-" Subject A visibly shudders, much to Roy Mustang's enjoyment, "and something that's oozing all over the bottom shelf. It smells pretty bad, too."

"I see." Roy Mustang responds, chuckling to himself as Lucky yet again pulls the ball away before Charlie Blue can kick it. **(3)**

"...Well?" Subject A taps his foot impatiently.

"I'll get around to it."

"But I'm hungryyyy." The Subject continues to whine. Roy Mustang establishes his maturity and ignores him. Subject A sticks his head in front of the paper. "There's no food." He repeats. When Roy Mustang calmly turns the page and reads around his rather small head, Subject A growls, and proceeds to wriggle under Roy Mustang's arm until he is planted firmly in his lap. Roy Mustang raises a well-shaped eyebrow. "I'm not moving until there's food." Subject A tells him, statement punctuated by his growling stomach.

As he does not want to have a hungry and temperamental seventeen year old with the ability to transmute his soul to a blender or something equally useless in his lap all day, Roy Mustang charitably decides to go to the grocery store. He's kind of hungry too.

At approximately 11:59 am, disaster strikes.

"Aw, what a cute little boy you are!" Roy Mustang hears this exclamation from behind him, and suddenly there is a very elderly, very wrinkly, very excitable senior citizen (who will subsequently be known as 'Victim S') up in his face. "Is he yours? He's so adorable! How old is he?"

Subject A's eye is twitching.

Victim S does not recognize the signs of impending explosion. Roy Mustang backs up a few steps, bumping into his cart. The girl bagging his groceries swears at him in Xingian as the wheel meets her toes.

Victim S turns around to face Subject A. "You're just the cutest thing!" she coos. "How old are you? Come on, you can tell me, don't be shy... how old? Ten? Eleven?"

The mushroom cloud goes up. "WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SHORT HE COULD STILL FIT IN THE BABY SEAT IN A SHOPPING CART!"

Roy Mustang is put on damage control. He thrusts his money into the cashier's hand, grabs Subject A by the back of his shirt, and drags the boy kicking and screaming and foaming at the mouth **(4)** out the doors. "Fullmetal! Shut up! That's an order!"

"SHE TOLD ME I LOOKED LIKE A LITTLE KID!" Subject A screeches. Pedestrians look over curiously and then scurry away. Roy Mustang grabs a lollypop from the cart, rips off the wrapper, and shoves it in Subject A's open mouth.

"Quiet. Eat."

"No!" Subject A pulls the lollypop out of his mouth, blinks at it, licks the little green sphere slowly, then grins. "It tastes like apples."

"Good. Eat it and shut up."

Roy Mustang has gained a valuable piece of knowledge. Green apple lollypops shut Subject A's big mouth.

They eat chicken for dinner. Roy Mustang is exhausted, having spent two hours on the phone with Victim S's lawyer, trying to convince him that it was not his fault one of the Victim's eardrums was broken and no one needed to be sued.

Roy Mustang falls asleep on the couch. When he wakes, Subject A is sprawled across the sofa, feet on Roy Mustang's flat, nicely muscled stomach. There is a permanent marker in his hand. Not wanting to know, he picks up Subject A and dumps him unceremoniously on the bed for the second night in a row.

Subject A falls off, thudding to the floor and snoring softly. Roy Mustang leaves him there. He's had enough trouble for the day.

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**(1) **This order form is now worth quite a bit of money, now that Roy Mustang has put his signature on it. No, he does not do autographs. Well, usually.

**(2) **Thankfully, after an extensive inspection, the filing cabinet was declared unharmed.

**(3)** The comic strip 'Walnuts' is © Charles Schmutz.

**(4) **Roy Mustang suspects rabies.

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Seriously, the amount of footnotes is increasing every chapter. By the last chapter, they're going to be longer than the story.

Review, or I shall smite thee.


	4. Tuesday, October 13th

**Things to read before you read: **Holy crap, I'm sorry for the five months it took me to get this up. ::hides face in shame::

**Michael Jackson says this story may be disclaimed, but he would like to claim Ed.**

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**Colonel Roy Mustang's Observations. Subject: Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist**

Tuesday, October 13th – Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, cannot cook.

8:24 am – Alarm clock goes off.

8:48 am – Roy Mustang wakes up and hits the alarm clock until it shuts up.

9:10 am – The neighbor's obnoxious barking dog forces Roy Mustang from his bed to the window to scream vulgar things.

9:13 am – Now awake, Roy Mustang stumbles to the bathroom.

9:20 am – Roy Mustang looks in the mirror.

9:29 am – Roy Mustang's tired mind registers that there are obscene expressions and little stick figures drawn all over his face in black marker.

9:30 am – Subject A is locked outside in the pouring rain.

9:30 and 4 seconds – Subject A transmutes his way through the back door and proceeds to shake himself like a dog, splattering water everywhere.

"Thanks a lot." Subject A sulks, wringing out his soaked braid and getting water all over Roy Mustang's impeccable kitchen floor. His pajamas are in a similar state. "Are we having breakfast? What are you making? I'm starving. Pancakes?" Subject A sticks his face into the bowl of tan goop Roy had been mixing before his personal space was violated. "It looks like pancake mix. Can I have some?"

"It's waffle mix, shrimp. Hence the presence of the waffle iron on the counter."

Subject A's face turns a very peculiar shade of red. "WHO ARE YOU CALLING A TINY PIECE OF FISH THAT- oooh, wait! I have an idea!"

Momentarily derailed at the change of topic, Roy Mustang does not attempt to stop Subject A from pouring chocolate chips into the batter. He will later regret it.

After fifteen minutes of listening to a hyperactive child whine about how long it's taking for the waffles to cook **(1)**, Roy Mustang sits down at the table and stares with slight apprehension at the brown blob on his plate. "Edward... how many chocolate chips did you put in these things?"

"Um." Subject A shoves half a waffle in his mouth, "Most of the bag."

Tentatively, Roy Mustang takes a bite of waffle.

Roy Mustang then chugs an entire cup of coffee to get the overwhelmingly sugary flavor of semi-sweet chocolate chips from his mouth. "How in the world do you eat those things?!" he sputters, making a face at the remainder of the lump of chocolate Subject A calls a 'waffle'.

"They're good!" Subject A looks insulted at Roy Mustang's degradation of his cooking skills. "Plain waffles are disgusting."

"Speaking of things that are disgusting," Roy Mustang leans against the sink and smirks at the still-damp Subject A, "There's about half a gallon of milk in that mix." **(2) **Subject A's fork stops an inch from his open mouth, then clatters to the plate. Roy Mustang sacrifices the waffles to the garbage disposal and listens to Subject A loudly retch into the toilet. Whether he's faking it or is actually throwing up, Roy Mustang has exacted his revenge.

As proven by the episode above, Subject A's tastes in food are not exactly what Roy Mustang would consider normal. The above event and the one chronicled below are proof that Subject A should never, ever be allowed in or near a kitchen.

Around noon, while Roy Mustang is completing a report for his higher-ups at the dining room table, Subject A wanders into the kitchen. His posture and expression clearly show he is hunting for food. Thinking back to the Waffle Incident, Roy Mustang quietly sets down his pen and walks over to the doorway.

Subject A creeps silently towards the cabinet Roy Mustang unwittingly left open earlier. The Subject's eyes zero in on the only reachable item – a cup of noodles. He craftily stalks the noodles, keeping low to the ground, so his prey doesn't catch sight of him and flee. If Subject A had a tail, it would be twitching like mad. Finally, he gets close enough to pounce.

Having caught his prey, Subject A smiles greedily, using his teeth to tear off the cover of the cup. Roy Mustang makes the mistake of returning to his work.

"Whatcha doing?" Subject A's head is suddenly invading his personal space once again.

"Writing."

"Writing what?"

"A report. Go away."

"But my noodles aren't done yet."

Roy Mustang sighs and pulls a sheet of paper covered in scribbles, scrawls, and a doodle that looks suspiciously like a stick figure with a braid hitting another stick figure labeled 'bastard' over the head with a mallet **(3)**, out of his briefcase. "Here. It's your report from the reconstruction of Liore. Rewrite it so it's actually legible." Subject A grumbles but does as he's told. Two minutes pass and Roy Mustang realizes that the noodles should be finished. He looks up to see smoke billowing from the microwave.

"HOLY SHIT!" Subject A screeches, jumping up so fast he knocks over the chair. Roy Mustang follows him into the kitchen and yanks open the microwave, getting a face full of black smoke. The plastic cup of noodles is on fire. "Fullmetal!" he yells, coughing, "What the hell did you do?!"

"I don't know!" Subject A yells back, shoving the window over the stove open and trying to wave the smoke out. "I opened it and put it in the microwave for two minutes like it said!"

Roy Mustang raises an eyebrow, getting a glass and putting it under the faucet. "Did you put the water in it first?"

Subject A looks dumbfounded. "...I thought you were supposed to do that after you cook it." **(4)**

After Subject A's inability to comprehend even the most basic of instructions nearly burns down Roy Mustang's gorgeous and high-priced house, when it comes time to cook dinner Subject A is demoted to the most un-food-related job his benefactor can think of.

"Go walk the dog."

Subject A blinks. "What?"

"Dog. Walk. Now."

"You don't even have a-"

6:29 pm – Subject A is once again locked outside in the pouring rain. Roy Mustang hums and makes chicken.

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**(1) **Roy Mustang is unaware of the circumstances surrounding Subject A's hyperactivity. Too much sugar in that lollypop for the Subject's tiny body, perhaps.

**(2)** Which is not true. Even Roy Mustang finds that kind of nasty.

**(3) **Were this grade school, Subject A would receive an 'F' and a letter to be taken home to his parents about the proper way to write a report. But it is not, so Roy Mustang will content himself with writing synonyms for 'short' in the margins.

**(4) **Idiot.

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Guess what?! I have another SAT tomorrow, because my guidance counselor thinks I am totally capable of getting higher than an 1830!!! ...Whoop-dee-frickin-doo.

Let's see if we can make it to 100 reviews, my public!


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